Going Beyond
by hannahjap
Summary: Beyond Birthday focused story, exploring the theory that BB did not naturally look like L, but tried to become him physically as well as just in occupation.


The face was already behind his eyelids, and today was the day he would bring it out. He had wanted this for longer than he could reasonably remember. It would be simple, oh so simple.

He had already done the hair. His had been blonde. He had been born with blonde hair. It was now so dark a brown as to be black, but not the blue-tinted black that would look dyed. He had been careful. It must be natural. It must have always been as it was now. It had also been quite soft, quite long. It now hung around his head in bushy, jagged clumps, that stuck out at all angles. He had rubbed dirt into his scalp after dyeing it so that the hair was of a rough texture. Thicker, somehow. He would be careful when he washed it now. He had cut it himself, of course, in a crude, inattentive way, just as it should be. The hair was right.

But the face would be harder, because it had not been born right.

He picked up the small scalpel and faced the wrong reflection in the mirror. He ran it under the cold water of the bathroom sink. Gently, he put the tip to his skin and, without pushing down, moved it over his cheek. He was testing. It was cool. It felt fine.

With an unhealthy resolve, he moved the blade to his lips. Left side. The crease that bends the mouth into a smile or a frown. He pressed down. Although the fingers of his other hand clamped tightly around the edge of the basin, he continued to create a small slit. He did so next on the right side. He tested a smile, and, ignoring the trickle, sputter, and then stream of blood waterfalling from either edge of his lips, he kept it with delight. He had widened his mouth.

As soon as he confirmed the success, he wiped the bloody corners of his smile with a damp cloth, and took up a needle from the side of the sink. Wincing slightly – but only slightly – he sewed the wound at top and bottom. He didn't want it to heal over. He wiped at it again when he was done, and then cleaned the scalpel quickly with the same cloth.

His cheeks had been wrong. They needed to be deeper. He had starved himself for a week, and now they were. His body was also thinner. At first, that had been good, but then it had become too much. He could not risk putting on too much weight again and losing the cheekbones he had crafted so carefully. He had removed the skin over his stomach, just the top layer, as carefully as he could, and inserted a thin layer of padding before stretching the skin over and sewing it back up again. The bulge didn't look completely natural with his shirt off, but it felt good, and it was not so unrealistic that it would be noticed if anyone happened to see it.

That operation had been sloppy. He had lost much more blood than he should have and had nearly passed out. He could have died. It bothered him, it made him angry, that he might die without being finished. He moved a hand unconsciously to his stomach now, as if soothing a pregnancy. He was pleased with the finished work.

The face was giving him problems.

Next, he stared into his eyes. This was the worst part. His eyes made him sick. They were a dull grey, a little green. They were meant to be dark brown.

However, they were also meant to be buggier, and that was today's battle. He had tried to research a way to do this more simply. He had practiced holding his nose and keeping his mouth closed and trying to force the air out of his body, which had not worked. It was meant to pop out. He was bored of waiting. It was going to happen today.

Carefully, very carefully, he held the scalpel up once more. He raised it to his right eye and leaned closer to the mirror, so close that his breath glazed the bottom half. His gaze was steady, but this was not the look of a healthy man. He didn't realise that of course - this obsession was too old and too drawn out for it to be anything but sane to him.

He made the slit. It was less than a centimetre, out from the tear duct. There was only a little blood this time. It seemed like only a little in comparison, anyway. Putting the scalpel down, he pushed the duct apart, then, with his other hand, squeezed just above and below the socket. With an uncomfortable squishy feeling, he felt the eyeball free itself and move ever so slightly further forward. When it had done so, he took his fingers away. Although the slit was nowhere near wide enough to let the eyeball fall out, he could see the globe stretching the freshly separated skin into a permanent place. The eye bugged out, more pronounced than before. He smiled lightly at his effort. This was a success.

He performed the same minor operation on his other eye. This time it hurt more. He almost screwed up, almost lurched the blade upwards by mistake when he felt the sharp pain. He swore at his own lack of control when he thought that he could have ruined the face he was birthing. Luckily, he hadn't.

He took a step back and wiped off the mirror. The reflection he saw now was better. It was not right yet, but he could see it – the face beneath, creeping forward.

"I'll reach you, L..." He murmured to what was no longer truly his own reflection.

The eye colour was a problem. Contact lenses were a last resort, as he would always know that they were fakes, and would have to remove them sometimes. No, it wasn't good enough. He'd read that bleach could alter eye colour, but he suspected it would not help him achieve the dark brown that he wanted. Still, he might have to try it.

He was willing to go beyond.


End file.
